


Let Others Wage War

by Wolf_of_Lilacs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mostly Fluff, an excess of mulled wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-23 18:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs
Summary: Voldemort receives a visitor on a snowy winter's night that he never could have expected.





	Let Others Wage War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viridianmort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viridianmort/gifts).



The fire burns low in the grate, the yule log crumbling into ash, its cracking and splitting the only sounds in the comfortable chamber. There is nary a stirring in the surrounding forest. Nothing dares come here, not with his magic so much a part of this place, his wards utterly impenetrable. The parties go on late into the night, he knows. He has attended a fair few over the last two decades. The revelry has never sat well with him. They know not what they have, what he has done for them, what the depths of deprivation bring.

:What is it you want?: Nagini lifts her head from her spot on the hearthrug. :You think loudly, master. Let me sleep.:

She cannot read his thoughts, not truly. Her comprehension is limited. But his agitation, he presumes, is immense enough to disturb her. :I shall try to quiet it,: he sighs.

:Good.: She drops her head again, content. So easy to please is Nagini. He'd met her in Albania, when he was in need of some distance and pursued the legendary Elder Wand. He had not found it, but had met a serpent of unexpected value. the search had been worth it, he supposes.

Oh, to be a serpent, with such simple pleasures.

He gets up and pours a second glass of mulled wine. The scent of the cinnamon and cloves permeates the room pleasantly. The drink warms him as little else does, and he returns to his armchair and his book and his disquieted thoughts. He has a long, empty night ahead of him.

*

Harry doesn't know why he's doing this. Or maybe he does know: It's Yule, he's bored and in the mood to do something stupid... Perfectly good reasons.

It had been nearly impossible to track down this hideout of the Dark Lord's, one that not even his most loyal followers were aware of. Harry knew of it only because of the blatancy of his concealing spells... and a hell of a lot of luck. (Whether it was good or bad luck, he's not quite sure.)

He shouldn't be here. He is believed dead, if he is thought of at all. Harry Potter died in a tragic accident in Godric's Hollow while his parents were in hiding, twenty years ago. He has no place in this world.  
(And it is best this way, for if the Dark Lord knew of his existence and their entwined fates, Harry would be dead many times over.)

And what a world it is. The Purebloods have had their day—after so long spent, the Half-Bloods and Muggle-borns vying for the scraps around their well-polished shoes, careful as to not be kicked.

It is not Harry's world. And yet…

After a point, he couldn't stay away, despite protests that he wasn't yet ready to face the Dark Lord, that he should exercise more caution.

It is easy to weave through the wards. They feel almost familiar, an echo of his own magic. A cottage appears, unexpectedly quaint. So commonly seen as decadent, Harry thinks savagely, the Dark Lord has a taste for frugality. Half-Blood sensibilities, his supporters might snidely say, if they knew and were more than spineless cowards.

He reaches out, his fingers bare inches from scraping the wood of the door. (If he touches it, what will follow?)

*

There is a tick in the wards. Voldemort starts. He's nearly dozed off, thanks to his wondrous beverage. Nagini's tail twitches, but she remains asleep. He peers out the front window but can find no one in the snow. But there must be— He sets his wine down, clutches his wand, prowls toward the door. He draws it open sharply, expecting to be attacked—

No one is there. The snow is undisturbed, a faint breeze stirring the branches of a leafless oak the only movement as far as he can see.

And then there is a rush of air at his ear, a rustle of cloth. He turns his head just in time to see a tall, dark-haired man tucking a silvery cloak away in his robes.

"Who are you?" His wand sparks. "How did you find me?" He would curse him now, but he is bored and in need of entertainment. There will be time later to hear this man's screams.

"You don't know me." The man is matter-of-fact. "You think I'm dead."

"I have killed many people. I believe many people to be dead. What does it matter that you are not? You are inconsequential, intruder."

The man's smile is slow, perhaps a tad cocky. His eyes, behind plain round glasses, are a green quite unlike any Voldemort has seen. He is transfixed. "I confess myself curious as to how you found me here, and why you would wish to seek me out." He smirks in satisfaction. "My fury is legendary, or so they say."

The man rolls his eyes. "I've heard of it, yeah."

"Have you? From where?" Tease it out, he decides. Lord Voldemort does enjoy playing with his food.

"Oh, here and there." The man's hand is hidden in his pocket, no doubt prepared to draw out a wand. Good. He is wary. Voldemort's boring night has truly become interesting now. A worthy foe, perhaps? A long-lost enemy? An—

(No, no that would be too far. No such individual existed, or ever would.)

Voldemort is everything Harry expected him to be. Tall—but not inhumanly so; his oddly flattened, sallow face, infused with a faint tinge of color by the wine and the firelight. Even in the height of relaxation his robes are the same black silk that he wears on the intermittent propaganda posters Harry's seen. He's captivating in person, the heady weight of his magic unlike anyone Harry has met before.

Harry fingers his wand, wondering if he'll be quick enough on the draw, should Voldemort decide to attack. But he appears content to observe, for now. Equally captivated, if the tilt of his head and the fixedness of his scarlet eyes are any indication.

"You have disturbed me on a quiet night. You owe me a secret." Voldemort's thin lips pull back over sharp canines, a facsimile of a smile he is uninterested in affecting.

"You won't rip it from me?" Harry goads. "As is your way."

"I have time, later, for such things." Voldemort lowers his wand, spreads his hands in what is likely meant to be an invitation. Harry grinds his teeth faintly, but does likewise.

"I know all magical folk in this region. They are tagged and registered. Rebels do not plague me. Dissent is easily silenced. From where have you come?"

"Is that what you want to know?"

Voldemort wants this unknown man as he has wanted nothing else in recent years. Divining the innermost secrets of all he meets becomes tiresome, and this man's shuttered thoughts are irresistible.

"I'm Harry," the man says. When this fails to get any sort of reaction, he nods to himself. "Do you have any wine to spare?"

Voldemort flicks his wand, doubling the amount left in the crock. "Duplicating isn't ideal, perhaps, but it does in a pinch." He summons a second glass and pours it, rather graciously, if you ask him. The height of graciousness, the epitome of a host. (If he should harm this stranger, it will not be here. He did not invite him in, but he has fulfilled all other duties.)

Harry takes the glass. "Cheers," he says. Voldemort brings up his own glass at the last moment, and the collision is hard enough to splatter wine on both their hands. Harry chuckles. Voldemort flushes, uncharacteristically.

"Harry, Harry," Voldemort muses as they sit. "You must be quite the wizard to have found me here and to have broken through my wards." He hisses the last word. The apparent pleasantness of the company aside, he does not appreciate being disturbed.

"I've been looking," Harry says simply. "How many dare search for you, I wonder? Would you kill them if they found you?"

"Not one of my subjects is worthy of me."

"Naturally."

"Few understand magic's intricacies. Fewer still care to learn. I do not wish for them to know of such things. They are poor conversationalists, fearful as they are."

"So, you're lonely."

"No, I have—" But Nagini remains sound asleep by the fire, not even stirring as he glares with an additional nudge of thought over at her. "Never mind."

Harry chuckles. "I meant actual people, not your pet."

"She's more than my—" but Voldemort stops himself before he says anything incriminating. One of Harry's brows twitches, and he has no idea why.

"Ah, yes. Where was I? Do you teach any of your followers? Do you search for one among them who can be your right hand?"

"I have a right hand. She needn't know all the things I can teach." Bella's brilliance lies in her spellcasting alone. Her patience is limited. He would never attempt to teach her the finer points of magical theory.

Harry is suddenly very close indeed, the warmth of him noticeable even in the cozy room. Voldemort leans closer involuntarily. His eyes catch Voldemort's, utterly entrancing. Voldemort senses nothing of his thoughts in his periphery. Occlumency like a master, then. Where did he learn it? Who would have dared teach it? None under his rule, for any who the art were either dead or unwilling to impart it. (All was his, every thought, every whim, if he chose to take it, and they would not dare withhold from him him his due.)

"You are strange to me," Voldemort admits, giving up his fruitless probing. "Where were you born? Where have you been?"

Harry smiles. "I was not born here. I have been many places."

Dumbledore, he thinks. Dumbledore's circumlocutions for the sake of it. He can feel a headache coming on. "Pray, enlighten me," he says. It's not a request anymore.

Harry senses it when Voldemort's interest verges on hostile, and it's only now that he begins to feel a measure of concern for the continued possession of all his faculties. Perhaps he really oughtn’t have come. But…he’s here now. What more harm can he do by talking?

"When were you born?" Voldemort finally thinks to ask as Harry takes increasingly relaxed sips of wine. (It's better than he expected, possibly the best he's tasted.) Ah, but he's hit on it, sooner than Harry thought he would.

"1980," he says easily. Relatively few children were born in 1980, it's true, but he could be a Muggle-born for all Voldemort knows. Not that being identified would matter. Voldemort never knew of the prophecy that foretold their fate.

"1980." There is something wistful in Voldemort's expression. "Such a year." He shakes his head, disconsolate.

"How so?" Harry queries.

"My ascension was assured," Voldemort murmurs. "My foes fled. I've never understood why. At the time I attributed it to my own efforts, since then I—"

"Yes?"

Voldemort bares his teeth. "Never you mind. Tell me of yourself, if you will. Where did you learn such skill in Occlumency?"

"Here and there."

"Dumbledore?" Voldemort guesses, ignoring Harry's obfuscation.

How did he know?

"Ah, he is quite unmistakable. I thought he had given into cowardice and allowed me my rightful victory, but perhaps I was wrong."

"Perhaps so."

Harry finishes the last of his drink and makes to stand. "Going so soon?" Voldemort says, the firelight reflecting brightly off his pallid skin, his eyes fixed on Harry's face.

"Not at all," Harry says. "It's a cold winter's night, and I have nowhere to stay."

Voldemort nods. "Of course. One night it is, then."

There is something unspoken between them—a wish, an inevitable product of their closeness—for then they are reaching out, their fingers twining, one set slender and long, the other stronger and stubbier. Voldemort wants what he does not understand, and Harry craves what he has so oft been denied. What is one night between himself and the man he is destined to kill? (What is one night between himself and the man who is destined to kill him, even though he doesn't know it?)

"You taste of my wine," Voldemort notes with unbridled pleasure after the first meeting of their mouths. "'Tis a fine taste—" Harry rather decisively puts an end to his monologue. Their kisses are slow and unhurried. Their robes slide from their shoulders with little discussion, aided by their magic and their hunger. Voldemort is lovely in the firelight, a preternatural beauty in the jut of his ribs and the delicate shadows of his flesh. Harry touches him in awe, his gentle and thorough exploration eliciting surprised gasps. How long has it been, Harry wonders, since someone touched him like this?

"Harry Potter," Voldemort murmurs against his skin. "The baby who disappeared when the Order did."

"That's right." Harry leans his head against Voldemort's bony chest, his hand lazily massaging Voldemort's now spent cock. Voldemort closes his eyes.

"There was a prophecy," Harry murmurs. "That I would have the power to vanquish you. That was the reason the Order fled."

Voldemort stiffens, but briefly. "Ah," he says.

"Is that all?" Harry whispers. He had expected an explosion.

"Tomorrow," Voldemort says, decisive, resting a hand on Harry's back. "Tomorrow will not be peaceful. I will kill you, make an example of you. They will cower once more, in truth, for they shall learn that there was hope, and that I have snuffed it out."

"Mm," Harry hums. "Why tomorrow? There are many days yet. You are immortal, are you not?"

"He has taught you well," Voldemort hisses half-heartedly.

“He has," Harry says. "I know more about you than I do about myself, I think."

Voldemort chuckles. "And I know nothing of you. I would not wish to be ignorant about my purported greatest enemy."

"There could be many tomorrows," Harry yawns.

"There could," Voldemort agrees. They curl together in Voldemort's too-wide-for-one bed.

:I like him, master,: Voldemort hears Nagini hiss as he begins to doze off.

:Oh? So you _haven't_ been asleep this entire time?:

He hears her give what passes for a laugh. :He's like you,: she adds. :He feels like you.:

How strange, Voldemort thinks as he settles closer to his unexpected guest. How strange, that in the end, fate should favor him so. He would not let this Harry Potter go…even if it killed them both.


End file.
